Against All Odds
by Psychochiquita
Summary: In the deep of night, while the world is asleep, Megamind rethinks all things that led to This Very Moment.


***Strums guitar* I call this one,** **"Why am I still up I go to work in a few hours why do I keep doing this to myself I'm cranky and hungry I mean no one even asked for this" or as it's more commonly known as; "** _ **I asked for this"**_

* * *

He sometimes has trouble going to sleep considering his cycles are so drastically different than what would be considered "normal".

He can't just make himself go to sleep like most people, having to exhaust himself mentally before being allowed to fall into the sweet grasp of slumber. He sometimes has to go through full-on string theory sessions before getting any amount of fatigue, running through algorithms and statistics and even working in his own daily events to stretch the calculations.

You know, for fun.

He's laying in the comfort of his bed while having a staring contest with the stuccoed walls, the sting behind his eyes unrelenting as he watches the all too familiar play cast by the shadows of the night dance across the ceiling.

The gentle drumming of his heartbeat annoyed him more than comforted, the sound of the electric hum in the walls a nuisance.

A shift under the covers, the telltale sigh of a deep breath taken in the trance of sleep, he felt weight curl into comfortable heat by his side and a hand unconsciously grasp his bicep.

He turned his glare from the popcorn plaster to gaze at the short fingers on his arm, his eyes softening at the sight of the wedding band glowing in the dark of the room.

He brushed away a few strands of hair from her forehead, enticing another deep inhale and a sigh of satisfaction. Without being consciously aware of it, his hand automatically rested on the growing mound of life Roxanne now carried, the movement almost as reflexive as throwing himself over her at the first signs of danger.

Her fourth check up with Dr. Glenn had barely been that morning, the good doctor's examinations concluding her pregnancy was progressing on a more than satisfying rate.

"Seems like we're in the clear of the 26th percentile," he had confided with them, much to their relief.

"I just wish there was an outline of how this is supposed to pan out, it's easier when you have a trimester guideline to go by."

"Don't worry captain," Megamind had responded. "This is uncharted territory for all of us."

As uncharted as the time it took for him to find his place in this world (13 years, six days three hours and fourteen minutes to be exact, but who's counting?) and how long it took him to stamp it.

However it took him even longer to figure out what had made him different than the rest. Not that the blue skin and oversized head weren't anything to go by, he just wanted to see what made him, well, _him_. And after nearly a decade when he was finally able to map out his genetic code, he was stuck with the data.

What was he going to do, splice it with human DNA and somehow create a hybrid child?

He hardly had a snowballs chance in Hell at being able to stand within the vicinity of a human without them running off in fear, let alone long enough to strike up a conversation. He supposed letting his delusions of passing on his genetics rest in darkness was probably for the best anyway.

He figured he had a one in Seven and a half Billion chance in finding someone worth fighting for if there were ever a slim possibility at reciprocating feelings.

But then it happened, and Roxanne Ritchie was his One in Seven Billion.

He sinks deeper into his pillow while contemplating the odds that it took for Roxanne to have been able to accept a fertilized egg using the equations that he'd been working on tirelessly for years, having struggled to find the perfect calculation to have an egg take to his, well, not exactly _it_ but for lack of a better word, sperm.

It shouldn't have been that hard to figure the odds and yet he keeps finding himself backtracking, adding more and more to his calculation. Sure, he's taking into account that one morning he was late on a coffee run, had he not accidentally clipped Ms. Sanchez's Maltese with his car door (and apologized profusely for it) he wouldn't have over-saturated the RNA strands and realized that's how he could separate the proteins and have them bind correctly.

But then he's adding even more, such as the fact that if he hadn't bolted down the arm correctly on his robot suit, it would've broken apart much sooner than the length of time that poor suit was able to withstand the beating from Metro Man, and he wouldn't have landed next to Roxanne that One Faithful Day.

Then the sudden thought on the complexities of time curvature in relation to distance from the center of a black hole knocked the wind along with all sensible thought out of him.

 _I_ _f_ _-_ _if my parents, had waited just a second longer, or_ _-_ _or if they sent me the day before like they planned to-, if, mom didn't insist on having one last family dinner-_

And all of a sudden he's hunched over their shared desk overwhelmed with the influx of information. The possibilities, the odds in themselves are staggering, everything had to have aligned PERFECTLY for him to end up where he is now, things had to fall in place to a T to have him scribbling away intelligible writing into a notebook he fished out of a captain jack's cereal box at three in the morning, using up several pages of the blank notebook and nearly running the tip of his pen into multiple pages at once with the sheer pressure he's applying into the inanimate object. He's practically halfway through the damn thing when suddenly in the sullen quiet Roxanne makes a noise of discomfort from behind him.

"Honey? Wha-"

He's putting away all the paperwork and notes as less than panic induced as he can (its not like she can understand his cryptic writing anyway, it's the easiest way he can take notes shorthanded), and he turns over the back of the office chair with a distant look.

"Just running some numbers, love."

She gives a sleepy nod and a quiet whine for him to come back to bed, the sound of her shifting under the comforter hitting him with the sudden feeling of homesickness.

He turns off the desk light and ever so gently pushes his seat into his desk without making a sound. Crawls into bed with delicate stride. Buries his nose in her hair and makes sure to hold her closer than usual.

"What are the odds" he mutters.

* * *

 **I might** **'ve gotten** _ **way**_ **too invested into** _ **Interstellar**_ **.**

 **-Boop**


End file.
